Crime doesn't Pay
by Scarlet Garter
Summary: For Mark Valley fans - rumor has it he will join the cast as Detective Tom Sullivan, Megan's long-ago love interest. This is my take on what he might have been doing since they split up and before they reconnect. Characters include Sullivan and Tombstone's lady marshal, Sara Earp. No smut, but some salty language and a few lacivious thoughts...
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Body of Proof nor any characters from the series, and intend no copyright infringement.

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

_**This story is for Mark Valley fans. Rumor has it he will be joining the cast of BODY OF PROOF early next year (2013). He will play Tommy Sullivan, an old love of Megan Hunt's, who "broke her heart" 20 years ago.**_

_**This is my take on who Sullivan was and where he spent some of those years. It is based strictly on my own imagination, since I can't find any 'official' data on this character. It is also something of a story fragment, which I may augment at some later date if there is sufficient interest.**_

**_My thanks to fellow writer _Viniceit_ for the tip on Mark Valley._**

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

Arizona  
Five Years Ago

Here he was, NYPD's Detective First Grade Tommy Sullivan, driving a rented Ticket-Me-Red Mustang along a stretch of Arizona State Route 80. Ahead, a cattle truck doing maybe twenty-three MPH on the downgrades led a line-up of at least a dozen cars unable to pass it on the narrow, twisting two-lane roadway. He should have been flying into Philadelphia. Where he might happen to run into Megan Hunt.

Fifteen years ago, he mused, he and Dr. Hunt were an item. A very hot item.

She wasn't Dr. Hunt then, and he had many years to go before attaining the rank of Detective.

He never meant to break her heart. He was crazy about her. She'd loved him.

Sullivan breathed a sigh of relief when the cattle truck - finally - turned onto a dirt road leading God knew where. The blacktop ran parallel a mostly dry river bed where huge trees, their leaves already turning gold, marked the watercourse. As did a railroad track. From time to time he caught a glimpse of rails flashing in the sun. He turned off the air conditioner, lowered the windows, and took a deep breath of clean, smog-free air still faintly tainted with cattle dung.

As he stepped on the gas and the Mustang surged forward in response, his thoughts returned to the events that had destroyed a very promising and mutually satisfying relationship.

"I'm pregnant," Megan told him. "You're the father."

He panicked. Ran straight to the nearest Marine recruiting office and signed up.

My finishing college can wait, he'd thought as he as he scrawled his name on the dotted line. This way, at least I'll be able to put food on the table. Megan can get her degree. When I get out, I'll have the GI bill and some damn good training to back it up.

Now, of course, he understood why she reacted as she did. She viewed his enlistment as abandoning her and the baby-to-be. A convenient means of evading his responsibilities. She refused to listen when he tried to explain his reasoning. Slammed the door behind her as she stormed from his apartment.

A few days later when the pregnancy scare proved false, she'd come to his apartment, let herself in with the key she hadn't returned, and caught him _in flagrante dilicto_ with some bimbo whose name he'd long since forgotten.

This time, Megan left the key behind, along with some choice observations of Sullivan's character and morals. She ignored his phone calls, his e-mail, the flowers and candy he'd sent. When he left for boot camp at Parris Island, she didn't come to see him off. Returned his letters unopened.

So, he got on with his life. Without her. Besides, he was far too young to tie himself down to just one woman. Out of sight, he told himself, out of mind.

For the most part.

He read about her from time to time, in_ JAMA_ or the _New England Journal of Medicine_. If a buddy caught him reading those publications rather than _Playboy _or_ Stars and Stripes_, he professed amazement he'd somehow picked up such a peculiar magazine.

After eight distinguished years in the Marines, he returned to New York City. He made a few inquiries. Looked up a few old friends. Learned that Megan had found someone else. He was filling out an application to join the New York Police Department when the first hijacked plane crashed into the Twin Towers.

Still something of a hot-head, and from time to time called on the carpet for his overzealousness, he nevertheless progressed rapidly in rank. But he was growing weary of New York. His new captain, Elwood Phelps, was a pain in the ass. Shortly before he was due for promotion to Detective First Grade, he began making half-serious inquiries about a transfer. Like, maybe, to Philadelphia, or one of the city's neighboring villages.

NYPD had recently resumed a cooperative training program designed to give small town or rural investigators a taste of big city policing. In return, New York detectives were sent to fill in for the visiting officer and learn something about how smaller agencies kept law and order in their jurisdictions. Sullivan signed up.

Told nothing was available this side of the Mississippi, he withdrew the application. So the last thing he expected when he was summoned to Captain Phelps' office yesterday was to be told he was going to….

"Tombstone?"

He couldn't believe his ears. It sounded as if Captain Phelps had just said 'Tombstone'.

"Tombstone, Arizona," Captain Phelps repeated, allowing just the tiniest of smirks to twist his normally bland features.

"You're kidding. Isn't that where that crazy Sam McCloud hailed from? The one who always wore a sheepskin coat and a Stetson? The one who snatched a mounted officer's horse t run down a - "

"That was a long time ago. And it was Taos, New Mexico, not Tombstone, Arizona."

"He shot up a roulette table at Red Hot Ruby's - "

"They're illegal, so he did everyone a favor. Look, Sullivan, McCloud was a wild card. We don't expect anyone like him to show up, and even if it happens, it doesn't affect you. Besides, he solved quite a few cases before he went home."

"The way I heard it, he was a thorn in just about everybody's side. And I heard the man we sent _there_ was still picking cactus spines out of his ass three weeks after he got home. He walks bow-legged to this day. No thanks. I have no desire to go chase bad guys out where the buffalo roam."

"You'll mainly be there to observe and learn. From what I understand, Tombstone's right in the middle of a drug pipeline leading up from Mexico. They have some pretty interesting techniques for nabbing smugglers."

"Like what, Apache scalp-hunters? Look, Captain, I'm a city boy. I'm not cut out for dodging cactus and rattlesnakes." Not to mention spiders the size of dinner plates that he'd heard could be found anywhere the deer and the antelope played. He suppressed a shudder.

"Sorry to hear that, Tommy. Still, it can't be as bad as all that. Nothing an ex-Marine can't handle."

Sullivan knew good and well Phelps wasn't the least bit sorry. In fact, Phelps had probably deliberately ignored his request to withdraw from the program.

"You've been making noises about a transfer. Tombstone's man is already on his way here. So you're going, like it or not. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. Pick up your tickets at my secretary's desk on your way out."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Five Years Ago  
Tombstone, Arizona

Despite Tombstone's boast of an 'international' airport, Sullivan discovered there were no direct flights to a town of maybe 1400 people. Getting there involved a bone-jarring flight through rain storms as far as the Rockies, an almost-missed connecting flight from Phoenix to Tucson because Arizona ignores Daylight Saving Time, then renting a car for the remainder of the trip.

"Tombstone," he muttered when he signed for the rental.

The Avis clerk had brightened and handed him three or four brochures. "Going for Heldorado? You'll have a good time. Everyone dresses up like in the 1880s. Reinactors do the gunfight at OK Corral and all kinds of other skits. I hope you've got a room reserved. There aren't many motels and they fill up way in advance."

He'd left without considering that particular matter. But they were expecting him, so they must have arranged something.

"The town too tough to die," he muttered as he followed the signs leading from the airport to Interstate-10 and the two hour drive ahead of him. "Probably roll the sidewalks up when the sun goes down."

About all he knew about Tombstone was what he'd seen in the movies. Sometime in the early '90s, the movie _Tombstone_ had been high on everyone's 'can't miss' list. He vaguely remembered seeing it. Waiting for his plane in Phoenix, he'd grabbed a book entitled _Cochise County, Today and Yesterday_, which gave a basic history of the town and the Earp-Clanton feud which led to the gunfight at OK Corral. He'd read it on the flight into Tucson.

Cochise County was named for an Apache war chief.

The town got its name when a soldier told prospector Ed Scheffelin he'd never find anything in the area but his tombstone (thanks in part to the depredations of Cochise and his warriors). Scheffelin named the first big silver strike The Tombstone.

Wyatt Earp, having tamed Dodge City, came to Tombstone to settle down and run a stage line, but ended up pinning on yet another tin star. His friend Doc Holliday came to fleece as many hard-working miners and cowboys as he could lure to his poker table.

Ike Clanton, Billy Clanton, Curly Bill and several dozen other rustlers came to Tombstone to sell the cattle they'd stolen and whoop it up with their ill-gotten gains. They also liked to rob the stage. It was much easier work than mining, and paid better.

Wyatt Earp and his brothers did not like the rustlers. The rustlers did not like the Earps. One afternoon the Earps decided enough was enough, marched down to the OK Corral, and put the Clanton Gang out of business permanently. Lawmen 3, Outlaws 0.

The silver mines played out, but the town too tough to die hung on by its fingernails until the book _Wyatt Earp, Frontier Marshal_ was published in the 1930s. Then Wyatt Earp became a hero to millions and Tombstone became a tourist attraction, and beyond that, Tom Sullivan knew little and cared less.

He grumbled to himself the entire drive from Tucson. These last twenty-four miles consisted of a hilly two lane blacktop that twisted and turned like a dying snake. Thank God he wasn't driving it after dark. A deer could decide to play Dodge'm just as you rounded another blind curve, and Bambi would be venison. Or Rancher Jolly's prize bull would amble out onto the road for a _siesta_. Signs all along the way warned "Open Range" which meant if you hit the stupid thing, you bought it.

Would a man die of thirst if his car broke down on this road? Well, probably not with all this traffic. For a blink-and-you-miss-it town, Tombstone seemed to be drawing half the automobiles in the state. That Heldorado thing, he supposed, or the carnival that came to town once a year. He had to snigger when he thought of that. The county's biggest entertainment was the annual visit of a traveling show.

In the distance, he heard a long, drawn-out wailing that made the hair on the name of his neck stand up. A moment later he realized it was a train whistle, but unlike any he'd ever heard except on TV. Glancing toward the tracks, he saw a thick plume of oily-looking black smoke billowing above the terrain.

For Pete's sake, it was an old steam locomotive. It pulled a coal tender and a short string of what appeared to be wooden passenger cars. A bright red caboose trundled along at the rear. The locomotive produced another long, mournful wail as it chugged down the tracks.

For the briefest moment, Sullivan had the eerie sensation of having fallen through a gap in the fabric of time. If he looked down, he'd have the reins of a team of horses in his hand instead of a steering wheel. Then he realized the locomotive must be the tourist train he saw advertised when he passed through the tiny, grimy railroad town of Benson several miles back.

The roadway curved away from the river and the train disappeared from view. Then, at long last, he saw a scattering of buildings on a distant plateau. There it was, his home away from home for the next 90 days.

The first thing he noticed on the edge of town was a giant concrete - what else - tombstone, with the words WELCOME TO BOOT HILL painted on it. Boot Hill was cowboy lingo for cemetery. Well, he'd definitely have to pay that a visit, the very first chance he got.

It was only about three o'clock so someone should be manning the Marshal's Office. _Marshal's_ Office. They really called it that? When he asked directions to the police station at the corner convenience store, the clerk had smiled and corrected his terminology before telling him to just keep on goin' up Fremont Street and watch for City Hall on his right. The _Marshal's _Office was right next door.

Shore enuf, right there beside a tall red and white structure with the words CITY HALL on a balustrade beneath its second story windows was a lean-to with yet another sign, a hand with a finger pointing at a gravel driveway, and the words MARSHAL'S OFFICE printed above it. To prove it, the three squad cars in the dinky parking lot all had big gold five-pointed stars on their doors, lettered:

TOMBSTONE MARSHAL'S OFFICE  
To Protect and to Serve.

Although the sun was edging toward a range of mountains on the western horizon, the parking lot retained the heat it had absorbed all day. As Sullivan approached the door, each step scared up hoards of red-winged insects that flew a few inches then settled again. It took a moment to dredge up a childhood memory and identify the creatures as grasshoppers. They made good fish-bait if you could catch them. And if there was a lake to fish in, which there probably wasn't.

You knew you weren't in New York, Toto, when the door to the Marshal's Office was made of wood, not bullet-proof glass, contained no microphone to speak into, and no pass-through for your credentials and service weapon. An old time shopkeeper's bell tinkled when he opened the door.

"Hello," the woman at the desk said, "may I help you?"

From the headset she wore, she was both dispatcher and receptionist. Her name tag read "Mable Gutierrez". A communications console stood a chair-swivel away. A computer keyboard reposed next to the monitor on her desk. An NCIC terminal stood in the corner as if being punished for bad behavior. Wall-mounted bulletin boards held page after page of diverse information. An honest-to-God WANTED poster held center stage on one of them.

"Tom Sullivan," he said, passing her a business card. I'd like to see the marshal."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Five years Ago  
Tombstone, Arizona

Seated at her desk in an adjacent office, Chief Marshal Sara Earp studied the corner of the monitor displaying the feed from the closed-circuit camera focused on the lobby. The man who'd come through the door appeared to have spent a long day getting from somewhere else to here. Salesman? Nope. No briefcase or samples case. Tourist? Maybe, but he didn't have the look. No camera slung around his neck, no sunburn, no Birkenstocks.

He was handsome in spite of looking like he'd been rode hard and put away wet. Killer grin. She'd bet he led way more than his fair share of ladies into temptation just by flashing that smile their way. Probably ran or maybe boxed to keep fit. Enough taller than her own five-six she could wear three-inch heels and still have to look up to meet those devilish blue eyes. Blonde hair not quite military short. Cop or ex-cop, or she'd eat her Stetson, snakeskin sweatband and all.

Get ready for Surprise Number one, Sara thought, stifling a grin of her own.

In the lobby, fingers poised above an appointment book, Mable asked, "Is Marshal Earp expecting you?"

"Ma - Marshal _Earp_? You're kidding, right?"

Sara pushed back her chair, stood, and prepared to deliver Surprise Number Two.

The receptionist was sucking in a breath to reply when a voice from beyond the lobby said, "Nope. She's not kidding."

The voice was a woman's. She stepped through a door with yet another sign, a white and black enamel plate reading "Chief Marshal".

"Sara Earp." She extended a tanned, French manicured hand with a surprisingly firm grip. "Chief Marshal."

She was kidding. Had to be. It was some trick they liked to play on tourists. There wasn't really a Marshal Earp in Tombstone in 2008.

Although, Sullivan had to admit, he'd never seen a six-shooter strapped to more shapely hips. Or a pair of khaki uniform trousers as elegantly filled. As for the gold marshal's badge pinned to her…er, chest, if ever a…chest deserved a gold star, it was hers. Her lustrous black hair was done up in a no-nonsense chignon. He'd bet his last Trojan her spit-polished boots were snake proof.

He sensed her giving him the same assessment he'd just given her, and felt himself redden. Damn Sullivan complexion.

"And yes, I'm related," Sara Earp continued. "Wyatt was my multi-great uncle. I'm descended from Virgil Earp's daughter by his first wife. There weren't any male progeny, so the married daughters changed their names legally back in the 30s, and kept it Earp ever since. Now that we've got that nonsense out of the way, what can I do for you?"

He produced another card. "Tom Sullivan. NYPD." At her blank look, he added, "Your exchange detective?"

"Exchange - Oh, crap! The man we're getting from New York. But you're not due until next week. Is he, Mable?"

"My flight was booked for today," Sullivan said.

"Next week," Mable said without looking up from the appointment book.

"And obviously you're here now. That's fine, except I hope your department made reservations, because the reservation we made for you is for next week. This weekend is Heldorado and every room in town is booked in advance."

Sullivan couldn't stop his abrupt slouch. He was beginning to believe it was all a colossal joke, an elaborate scheme someone had cooked up. First the unexpected TDY, then the almost-missed flight, then _Marshal Earp_, now no place to stay. He was being Punked. Where were the hidden cameras?

"Mable," Sara said, "make a few calls. See if there's any cancellations. If so, grab it and charge it to the city." She hooked one arm around Sullivan's elbow. "While she's doing that, let's you and I go get something to eat."

Sullivan hadn't realized how hungry he was until Marshal Earp mentioned food. Without a second thought he let her lead him out to the yard where they climbed into one of the Crown Vics, which she maneuvered from the cramped parking lot as if it were a Mini Cooper. They drove a sweltering two blocks to the corner Longhorn Café.

When he followed her through the door, the aroma of broiled steak and something with onions almost made him whimper.

A hostess wearing an ankle-length skirt and a blouse with leg o' mutton sleeves led them to a booth with a clear line of sight to the front door. By design, Sullivan guessed, and his estimation of Sara Earp rose a notch.

The hostess placed menus in front of them, then gave Sullivan a searching appraisal. What was it with women in this town? They thought men were an alien species?

"Got a new deputy, Sara?" the hostess asked.

"Detective," Sara said. "Visiting from New York."

"How'd you know?" Sullivan asked the hostess.

"I was a corrections officer for five years. I can spot a cop or a con a mile away. Enjoy your visit. Your server will be right with you.

… … … … … …

Sara treated herself to a good long look as the New York detective ambled off to find the men's room. She hoped he'd figure out it was the one marked COWBOYS. He had a nice ass. And now that he'd gotten a few sips of coffee into him, he was beginning to revive.

He was about her age, give or take a year or two. Without doubt experienced in bed. From the way he opened the restaurant door for her, and stood until she was seated in the booth, someone had taught him some manners. Which probably carried over into other critical aspects of his life. She despised men who still thought sex was all about them.

She'd tried to sneak a peek at his package, but his trousers were too wrinkled from travel to allow more than a suspicion of what might be hiding underneath. Oh well, she liked surprises.

Well listen to you, Sara, she said to herself. Haven't known the guy more than twenty minutes and you've already decided you want to hop in the sack with him. What if he's not the least bit interested in you?

But she was pretty sure he was at least curious. She'd seen him giving her 38-D 'badge' the once-over. Most men did, if they weren't gay or scared of the Colt .45 Peacemaker she wore just to enhance the Town Marshal image. If she needed a weapon to make an arrest, she preferred the sweet little X-26 taser she carried in a holster sewn into one boot.

She'd been without a love interest too darn long. Since her election two years ago, now that she thought of it. Not many eligible men lived in Tombstone. Taking up with any of them was risky. All too often, men who dated female officers felt entitled to disregard the law. And Sara, like her illustrious ancestors, brooked no nonsense and granted no favors.

She let the man demolish his steak before turning to the matter of his assignment. As they lingered over coffee and the house specialty dessert, Death by Chocolate, she said, "I thought I'd have another week to decide what to do with you. I understand that you're here first and foremost to observe. That's fine, but I was wondering…."

He gave her the grin. "Yes?"

"I'm going to be short a man with Edwards away. If you're willing, I'll swear you in as a reserve. It'll give you authority to arrest, and make your service weapon legal. Also protect us if, God forbid, you have to shoot someone in the line of duty."

"I thought you'd never ask."

"It might mean a few nights on patrol if someone calls in sick."

"I've spent a few nights on patrol in my day. Just plug me in wherever you need a warm body."

Before she could think of an appropriate response to that comment, her radio squawked.

"Tombstone Base to Unit One."

"Unit One. Go."

"Be advised CCSO requests assistance intercepting 10-43 suspect times two proceeding eastbound on Charleston Road." There was a pause, then the dispatcher added, "County advises they just robbed the train."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Five Years Ago  
Tombstone, Arizona

Sullivan was too stunned to move as Sara leaped to her feet and headed for the door. _Robbed the train?_

"You comin'?" she called in his direction as she tossed cash to the girl at the register. She didn't wait for a reply. It took him several strides to catch up.

Now he understood why she'd insisted on driving when the Marshal's Office was a scant two blocks away. She was behind the wheel with the engine running before he yanked open the passenger door.

She executed a precise U-turn in the middle of Allen Street and hit the roof-lights. Pedestrians scurried from their path. At the west end of town, she made a left turn, opened up the siren and tromped on the gas.

"CCSO?" Sullivan asked as he buckled his seatbelt.

"Cochise County Sheriff's Office," Sara said above the siren's whoop. "They have jurisdiction over unincorporated areas. We have a mutual assistance agreement with them. Most of the smaller towns do. Their nearest unit is blocking Charleston Road at the river. Anyone else is way too far away to run these guys down. So we'll give 'em a hand."

"We have any back-up?"

"I'll need my deputy to stop traffic from our end. So…looks like you're it. Raise your right hand. Do you solemnly swear…."

As the patrol unit bounced over the pot-holed roadway, Sullivan repeated the oath, wondering what in the world he'd gotten into.

At the city limits line, Sara positioned the cruiser diagonally across the roadway. They got out. Sara stood at the front wheel-well, arms folded across her chest, ankles crossed. Some roadway, Sullivan thought, eying the potholes like moon craters on its surface, mesquite and prickly pear growing along the verge. On one side, a crumbling escarpment looked like it could avalanche onto the road any moment. On the other, an arroyo so deep Sullivan couldn't see the bottom waited for the careless motorist to plunge over the edge.

In the few short minutes it took to reach the city limits, more information had come in. The tourist train he'd seen on his way into Tombstone had made its afternoon picnic stop just past the old Charleston Bridge. Passengers disembarked to stretch their legs, let the kids on the ride burn off some energy, and enjoy a meal prepared over a campfire. When the two six-gun-toting 'cowboys' with bandanas pulled over their faces circulated among them requesting they drop their wallets and purses into the burlap bag one carried, many of the passengers assumed it was all part of the show and cheerfully turned over their valuables. The 'hold-up' men didn't seem to object when someone chose not to participate. Soon the bag bulged with loot.

It wasn't until the conductor spotted the men and started yelling that anyone realized they were being robbed for real. The bandits sprinted into the surrounding mesquite and made their escape on dirt bikes. They'd headed up Charleston Road toward Tombstone.

Sullivan and Sara stood for a time, gazing out across the quiet land. He tried to imagine how it must have looked in the 1880s, twenty mule teams pulling ore wagons, stamp mills' thunderous pounding. Indians taking pot-shots at lone travelers. He kept a wary eye open for tarantulas. And some kind of lizard called a Gila Monster.

Then, in the distance, they heard a rumbling sound. Minutes later, two bikes came into view.

Sara straightened. She reached inside the patrol unit to remove a Mossberg 590 riot gun from its mount. She passed it to Sullivan. "I'll handle it," she said. "You back my play."

Sullivan didn't care much for the idea of letting a woman take the forefront of a confrontation, no matter what Women's Lib had to say. That wasn't Kevlar under her five-pointed star. But what could he do? This wasn't his bailiwick, and he'd only been sworn in as a matter of exigent circumstances. If she trusted him to back her play, that's exactly what he'd do.

"You got it."

He checked the load and stood beside the cruiser with the riot gun cradled in the crook of his arm. Sara resumed her nonchalant stance as if she were waiting for the ice-cream truck, and waited for the bikes to arrive.

Suddenly she gave a snort of disgust. "Ike and Billy. I might have known. Stand down, Sullivan. These two are only dangerous if you turn your back on them."

"I'm almost afraid to ask: Ike and Billy? As in Clanton? As in OK Corral?"

"As in horse-manure-for-brains Avery. The Avery family's been around almost since the town was founded. They used to own mineral rights to half the Tombstone Mining District. Now they run that little milling and assay operation a few miles down the road. When they're not visiting the bail bondsman to get these two out of jail."

"Trouble-makers, huh?"

"These two've been in and out of trouble since third and fourth grade. They'll take anything that isn't nailed down, but they like stealing cars the best. Their last job was a brand new, custom-painted, pink Jeep Cherokee. Idiots left it sitting on the railroad tracks while they got out to take a leak, and a freight train demolished it. That got them five years and probation." She glanced at him. "If you have to hit one, hit Ike. He's twenty-one now."

The bikers were weaving a serpentine path with each other down the center of the roadway. They showed no indication of slowing or turning off.

"Why are they still coming?" Sullivan asked. "You'd think they'd split up. Take off cross-country where a squad car can't follow."

"Did you hear anyone use the word 'genius' to describe these two?"

He hadn't.

Revving the engines, Ike and Billy rolled to a stop ten inches from the toes of Sara's boots.

"Turn 'em off," Sara ordered.

Both bikers shut down the engines, pulled off their helmets, and grinned like two Halloween jack-o-lanterns. Sullivan was relieved to see that their battered leather jackets bore no gang insignia. They wore jeans worn out at the knee and biker boots that hadn't seen polish since coming out of the box. Both had long, greasy hair and tatts. The shorter one - Billy - had a severe case of acne. The taller one - Ike - wore a gold stud in his nose. Matching chin whiskers failed to hide their identical weak chins.

"Heard there was a new marshal," Ike said. "Didn't know it'd be a hot li'l honey like you. Want me to polish yer badge?"

"You two must really enjoy institutional food," Sara said. "You haven't been out ten days and you're already headed right back to the slammer."

"Who's gonna put us there - you?" Billy sneered.

"Your choice. I'd just as soon shoot you both and drop your sorry carcasses down a mine shaft."

Sullivan's head snapped around. It sounded like she _meant_ that.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-ooh, I'm scared," Ike said. He raised his hands as if warding off a blow, and brayed a laugh. His brother giggled and scratched his crotch.

Sullivan racked the Mossberg, the distinctive sound of the slide action sharp and clear. "You'd better be," he said, just loud enough to be heard in the sudden silence.

"Which one of you has the loot?" Sara asked.

Each of the brothers pointed at the other.

"So you've divvied it up already. Billy, did Ike give you your fair share, or keep all the good stuff for himself?"

"I got three of the watches - "

"Shut up, you moron!" Ike shook his fist at his brother. "Now she knows for sure it was us pulled the heist."

"I already knew anyhow." Sara 'tsked' in disgust. "Okay, boys, my deputy will take charge of the loot. Hand it over and then go sit in my patrol car."

Grumbling under his breath, Billy dismounted, booted the kickstand into position and leaned the bike onto it. Sullivan was amazed the brothers offered so little resistance. He'd been ready for a free-for-all. Billy removed a feed sack with the faded image of a Rhode Island Red rooster on it from a saddlebag.

Lower lip protruding like a pouting kindergartner, Billy thrust the bag at Sullivan. "Here."

A peek in the bag revealed no more than a dozen items, three watches, several wallets, someone's cell phone, some jewelry.

Billy trudged over to the patrol car and opened the front passenger door.

"Huh-uh," Sara said without turning around. "The _back_ seat."

"Shouldn't we pat him down first?" Sullivan asked, appalled. "Cuff him?"

"Unnecessary. Okay, Ike, we're waiting."

"What about our bikes?" Ike asked as he dismounted. "Someone might come along and steal them. We can't just go off and leave them here."

"Sure you can. Who'd want to bother hauling off two dented up beaters like those?"

"Anybody! Anybody'd want 'em! They're not beaters, they're _classics_. Worth at least three, maybe five hunnert _each_!" Ike looked about ready to cry.

"Then you should've sold them instead of robbing tourists. Now hand over the rest of what you took. Then you can move your bikes off to the side of the road. I'll radio Barnnett's to come pick them up."

Muttering something about impound fees, Ike handed over his share of the loot in a burlap bag. It contained twice or three times what was in Billy's feed sack. Sullivan never took his eyes off Ike as he walked the bikes one by one to the edge of the roadway.

He started to suggest it might be smarter to park them on the opposite side of the road from the arroyo, but Sara gave him an elbow-nudge and shook her head.

With both Averys behind the partition cage separating detainees in the back from lawmen in the front, Sullivan reclaimed the front passenger seat. Sara radioed Base she was 10-19 back to Tombstone with two in custody. "Notify CCSO to release his traffic and come get them," she added.

As Sara was maneuvering the big Crown Vic on the narrow road to return to town, the vehicle suddenly lurched forward.

"Look out!" Sullivan yelled.

"Oops!"

Sara stomped the brakes, but it was too late. The front bumper plowed into the first bike, smashing it into the second. Momentum tumbled both bikes over the drop-off as the Averys howled and pounded on the cage.

"Oh, what a shame," Sara said . "But you know, it just goes to show, crime doesn't pay."

"You did that on purpose," Sullivan said as Sara backed up and finessed a perfect Y-turn.

"You're damn right I did. That was _my_ pink Jeep Cherokee."

**_- to be continued if there is sufficient interest. If you want more, please review._**


End file.
